


It's Only A Game Show

by Pouxin



Category: The Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011), The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Boxer Marcus, Dancer Esca, Freckles, Game Shows, M/M, Pining, Reality TV, big hands, dating show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 15:51:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6526450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pouxin/pseuds/Pouxin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dating show funtimes!  Written for <a>The Eagle Exchange</a>.  I pinched the idea from <a href="http://the-eagle-kink.livejournal.com/2834.html?thread=3752978#t3752978">this prompt</a> on the eagle kink: “One night Esca gets incredibly drunk with his friends and decides to nominate himself for a spot on a horrible reality TV dating show. The last thing he expected was to actually get on the show, or to fall in love with the same guy that everyone else is fighting for, Marcus Aquila”; but with plenty or reference to freckles and Marcus’ big hands, plus the other requests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Only A Game Show

**Author's Note:**

> So the format is based on the TV show ‘The Bachelor’, which aired the UK recently with the rugby “star” Gavin Henson in the main “role”.

“Absolutely not, I’m not doing it.” Esca narrows his eyes at Cottia, who is proffering a garish looking laptop screen in his direction.

“I’ve already filled in all the details on the application form,” she chirps, in her super-efficient, aren’t-I-the-most-helpful-agent-ever voice, as if she is actually doing something _useful_ , something Esca _wants_ her to do. “And uploaded a picture. All you have to do is add a bit here and there.”

“No. And if you submit that without my permission I _will_ sue you.”

“Esca. You haven’t even _paid_ me for 4 months.”

“Fine. I will continue not to pay you.”

“Exactly! This is why this is such a good idea. Come on. It’s a golden opportunity. Think what it will do for your profile. Think how many viewers shows like this get.”

“Yeah, prepubescent school girls and desperate middle-aged housewives. It’s hardly my core demographic. I don’t think they’re the kind of people who are like: right, I enjoyed that, now I’m going to watch some Jeremy Kyle, eat some chips, and then head off to an interpretative dance show.”

“You’re such a snob. And actually, it _will_ be our core demographic. I know you like to think everyone at your shows are avant garde bohemian types, but it’s the gays and the girls. You know that as well as I do.”

Esca feels himself make a fatal hesitation, half hypnotized by the horribly crass flashing colours and spinning graphics on the application page. Cottia senses weakness and pounces on it gleefully.

“You have to think of it as a springboard. For your dancing. With all the publicity. And you never know. You might find _love_.”

“Cottia. It’s a celebrity dating show. _If_ I go on it – and I mean if –“ he holds out a hand to try and cut off Cottia’s victorious grin, “I’m going to be stuck with some complete idiot. It’s probably going to be some washed up sports has-been, in danger of turning to fat, with tickets on himself. It’s probably going to be someone who waxes his chest. And _enjoys_ dating programmes. It’s probably going to be an _American_.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about. You’re basically describing my ideal man.”

 

**

 

So here he was. Stuck in some remote Spanish villa with 9 other desperate wannabes, who mostly describe themselves as club promoters, music producer’s assistants or ‘actors’ (Esca couldn’t help but think the scare quotes) and a ragtag film crew. Esca had to admit that so far it wasn’t too bad. He had been given free food, free beer, a free holiday, and had mostly been able to avoid the bitching, preening group of his fellow contestants and hang out with the sound guy, chain smoking Marlborough Reds and eating churros, safe in the knowledge that Cottia would never know he had deviated from the Health Nazi programme she generally had him on. 

He figured he’d stick it out for a week or so, then get himself eliminated and head back to London, where he’d get as much millage out of Cottia from the whole sorry experience as was humanly possible. 

He was almost in danger of actually enjoying himself. 

But what he hadn’t counted on was Marcus Aquila. 

 

**

 

Esca had approached the initial meet up with ‘the bachelor’ – the single “celebrity” hunk whose love he and the other contestants were supposedly vying for – with mild curiosity, wondering what desperate tubby former sports star, or washed up 80s pop group has-been, the producers were going to foist upon them. So he wasn’t surprised when he first saw Marcus, looking slightly uncomfortable in his tux on the steps of the villa. He recognized him as a boxer. Remembered more about his father, actually. Flavius Aquila had been some big shot heavyweight boxer in the 70s, who fell from grace with a bang after being accused of mafia connections and match fixing. Marcus had been moderately successful, had managed to do some sort of rebrand on the family name. So, Esca wasn’t surprised. So far, so clichéd. What he had been surprised about was how handsome Marcus had looked in the flesh, how strong his shoulders looked under the sleek tailoring of his dinner jacket, how thick his thighs were, how warm his fingers felt as they clasped Esca’s in a powerful handshake.

“Hi, I’m Marcus.”

“I know,” Esca said dryly, determined not to show that he was in anyway effected by Marcus’ bigness, and strongness, and sheer physicality, and…surprising beauty. He looked at Marcus for a long beat, noticed how soft and green his eyes were, and relented slightly. “I’m Esca. I’m a dancer.”

“I know.”

“You _do_?” Esca couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. Marcus certainly wasn’t his core demographic. Well, asides from presumably being gay.

“Yeah, I…,” Marcus was blushing. “I’ve been to some of your shows. You’re amazing.”

“You’ve been to some of my shows?” Esca parroted back, unable to think of anything more insightful to say, still too shocked that Marcus Aquila – the random American _boxer_ Marcus Aquila – had been to a _dance_ show. Any form of cultural event really. He’d presumed when boxers weren’t being hit on the head for cash they spent most of their time drinking heavily, biting each other’s ears off, marrying prostitutes and keeping pet tigers.

“Yeah. I got really into dance. I try and practice most days. Your sort of stuff. I love how creative you are with it.”

“You _dance_?” Esca had realized by this point how idiotic he sounded, but couldn’t stop himself.

“Yeah, yeah. My coach, Stephanos, has always encouraged me. It’s really good for the boxing. Balance, footwork – you know. Dancing really helps.”

“Um, OK.”

Marcus had smiled at him hesitantly, eyes glowing, and took a deep breath. “Sorry, I probably sound like an idiot. It’s hard to explain. I mean, I’d never be as good as you, you’re amazing, but there definitely is a connection between the two sports. It’s… it’s knowing everything your body is doing, understanding the feel of it, how it moves, where it is at every moment, how it interacts with the ground… And the perfection… You know, in boxing it’s about being _good enough_. If my jab is good enough that I can move onto my right hand my coach is like ‘perfect, Aquila, perfect’. But perfect and good enough aren’t the same. Dancing taught me that. I want every move to be perfect, so I practice it over and over again, again and again, so my muscles will never forget how it feels, how… Sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

Esca couldn’t have felt more knocked for six if Marcus had dealt him a swift uppercut to the jaw.

“Uh, no, I can see the connection,” he managed, before being ushered up the steps by an increasingly irate production manager.

“What the fuck was that, Marcus?” the woman, Sassy, was muttering. “We’re going to have to cut most of that. Understanding your body, perfection… Just _meet_ them Aquila, for godssake. Just: hi, I’m Marcus, some cheesy come-on line if you want, bye. We don’t want any cod philosophy or your life story.” 

Then, to Esca: “Contestant 7. Stop staring and get up the steps. Up, up! Jesus. It’s like herding cats.”

 

**

 

So now Esca is stuck in a villa with a bunch of preening wannabes and someone he maybe, possibly, might have just a tiny bit of a crush on. This makes him irritable. The heat makes him irritable. The chain smoking makes him irritable. The fact that Marcus hasn’t yet asked him out for any one-on-one activity dates makes him irritable. The way all the other contestants bill and coo over how dreamy Marcus is, how tall he is, how handsome he is, how the slight limp and cauliflower ears only give him character, makes him irritable. How sweet and thoughtful, and entirely non-thuggish, Marcus is every minute of every day makes him irritable. 

So Esca retreats into himself, refuses to take part in stupid group games, and takes himself off into remote corners of the villa to read. He wants no part of it. He knew the show was a bad idea. Plus it really is nauseating how moony all the other contestants are, jostling for Marcus’ attention, bitching and sabotaging. 

He is driving Sassy mad.

“Number 7! There you are. We’re at the pool. You may have noticed it, it’s that big blue thing at the front of the house. I can see you’re going for the brooding, silent thing, and I can work with that, but would you please go and be a moody little bugger by the side of the pool. You know, where we’re actually _filming_.”

Esca stomps over to the pool, refusing to swim, or talk with anyone else, or, god forbid, _frolic_ with Marcus like everyone else seems to be doing; instead resolutely lying on his sun lounger reading ‘100 Years of Solitude’. He definitely does _not_ look at Marcus being cornered in the swimming pool by a succession of lithe young men, each one more hammily flirtatious than the last. Neither does he look at Marcus getting dripping out of the water, his great dark gold body shining in the sunlight, the dusting of freckles over his chest and shoulders. He certainly doesn’t get distracted from his reading by all the power in that body. _Real_ power, not like the gym-ripe bodies of the other men lounging around the pool preening, vying for Marcus’ attention, but power that has a _purpose_. Marcus’ body is big and strong and hard because it needs to be, because that is how he lives. It’s his tool, just like Esca’s body is to him. 

Esca imagines that hard body taut and shivering beneath him, surrendering to him completely, becoming soft and pliant. _No_. Besides, there’s no way that someone like Marcus wouldn’t want to be the dominant one in any encounter. He’s a boxer, after all. Christ, the man makes his living out of violence, out of forcing other people to submit. 

He’s so distracted he doesn’t notice that Marcus has walked over to where he’s reading. Except he hasn’t been reading at all. He’s been staring. 

“Not enjoying the sunshine?” Marcus asks, indicating the parasol Esca has positioned above his sun lounger to block the maximum amount of sunlight possible.

“Nah, I just burn,” Esca mumbles. “Classic English skin. Sensitive. Pale.”

“And interesting,” Marcus adds, then bites his lip like he can’t quite believe what he just said. Wait – is Marcus _flirting_ with him? Esca doesn’t really see how that can be possible, not with the other perfect specimens of manhood clustered around the pool, in various states of undress. He pulls awkwardly at the collar of the ratty old t-shirt he’s wearing.

“I suppose I should take this off, but it’s a bit intimidating, you know, with the Dolce & Gabbana shoot going on round here,” he nods over at the sea of gleaming bronze skin that surrounds them.

"That’s stupid, your body is perfect… I mean, there’s not an ounce of fat on you. You’re… when you dance I could just…. Um…” Marcus trails off, colour high in his cheeks. He looks down at the flagstones around the pool and swallows heavily. Then he looks up, giving Esca a hesitant little smile that makes his stomach flip-flop. “So I have, uh, a dinner date with someone tonight. Um... would you like…? I mean….”

“Sure,” Esca cuts in, not wanting to watch Marcus floundering awkwardly any further. He seems so casual and confident with all the other contestants. This adorable, clumsy thing seems to be something he employs just around Esca. Maybe Sassy told him to be that way. He looks over at her suspiciously, as she organizes some of the other guys, Liathan and Placidus, into a game of volley ball in order to get as much skin as possible into her shot. Or maybe… Marcus is like that around him because he _likes_ him. Esca can’t quite believe that could be true, but he allows his heart a little flutter of hope.

 

**

 

The set up for the date with Marcus couldn’t be more romantic if it tried. The beach. Sunset. A table for two looking out over the sea, crisp white table cloth rippling gently in the breeze. Marcus looking impossibly handsome in an open necked blue shirt and pale linen trousers. In fact, if it wasn’t for the TV crew circling like vultures, asking them to repeat bits of conversation to get a better shot, and pulling various ridiculous faces at each other, it would probably be the most romantic date of Esca’s life.

“Why are you even doing this show, anyway?” he asks, having just been instructed by Sassy for the 3rd time to repeat some inane bit of banter. The crew are momentarily distracted by some issue with the sound guy’s equipment, and Esca seizes the opportunity to try and have some sort of real conversation with Marcus. 

“Honestly?” Marcus flexes his hands out in front of him and looks down, blushing. Esca finds himself distracted by how big Marcus’ hands are. They’re really… enormous. Great knobs of knuckles, the skin taut and shiny over them from countless splits and blisterings. Esca imagines what it would be like to see those great hands used in anger, and feels a cold shiver up his back. He’s glad he’s never had to square up to Marcus in a fight. Then he thinks of those hands, gentle, trembling, gliding over the angular lines of his body, spaying themselves across the small of his back. He thinks of those huge, blunt fingers wrapped around his cock. This time the shiver up his spine is warm; dark and sparking. He becomes aware Marcus is talking again. “It really isn’t my scene at all. My agent – Stephanos – he… Well, I’m getting a bit old for boxing now, and I need to make the transition into… something else. Being a pundit or… And you know… publicity.” He shrugs. “It’s dumb, isn’t it?”

“Hey, look, I’m here,” Esca replies gently. “We could all do with the publicity.”

Marcus nods slowly. “What I really want to do is just retire and go and live out on my Uncle’s farm and breed horses. It’s where I grew up, it’s what I love. But a lot of people are depending on me. All the stuff with my dad… My Uncle almost lost the farm, my family was ruined. They need the money I make to keep things ticking over.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I hate this though,” he gestures around him at the bustling film crew. “It’s all so fake. I knew I was never going to meet anyone on something like this. That is, until…”

“Right, guys,” Sassy interjects, smiling broadly, but with eyes like a viper’s. “We’re back on track. Now, talk to each other about your _hopes for the future_. Number 7 – tell him something personal.”

“When I was born, I had no lungs,” Esca says solemnly. Marcus grins widely. 

“CUT!” Sassy hollers. “For Christ’s sake, Number 7. This is why I wouldn’t let Marcus pick you for one of these one-on-one things earlier. Cooperate, or you’re on the first plane back to whatever miserable shithole part of the country you’re from.”

 

**

 

All in all, Esca feels the date went well. He thinks about Marcus smiling whenever he made a joke, or wound Sassy up some. He thinks about what she said about how _she_ had stopped him picking Esca for a date earlier. He thinks about Marcus’ hands. He thinks about the delicious splatter of freckles across Marcus’ sleek golden skin. He thinks these things and his heart stretches out with happiness inside his chest. 

So it’s a real surprise when at the next day’s elimination Marcus sends him home.

 

**

The driver is meant to take him to a hotel to stay the night, so he can get his scheduled flight first thing in the morning, but Esca tells him to take him straight to the airport. He can’t bear another night in this stupid country. The warm, fragrant air; the hum of the air conditioning units; the distant whisper of the sea – all these things just remind him of Marcus, and how stupid he was to think they had any sort of connection, or that Marcus would pick him over all those other tall, muscular pretty boys. _Stupid_. Cottia’s going to have a field day with this one.

No, he’ll get on the first flight possible, he’ll pay for it himself if he has to.

He is standing moodily in the check-in line, scuffing at the corner of his suitcase with his toe, chewing furiously on the inside of his cheek, when he hears someone calling his name from across the airport lobby. It’s probably one of the film crew, here to record his final moment of humiliation and rejection for the pleasure of the viewing public. He snaps his head up angrily, eyes narrowed.

It’s Marcus. All tall and sun-kissed, striding across the airport towards him. Oh, _brilliant_. Clearly the initial elimination wasn’t embarrassing enough. Presumably Marcus has come along to outline his reasons for rejecting Esca in even more toe-curlingly awkward detail. Esca waits for Sassy to jump out from behind the check-in desk, barking orders about lighting or positioning or how his hair should look.

“Esca,” Marcus says again, breathless, upon reaching him.

“What?” Esca tries to keep his voice as blandly uninterested as possible. 

“I went to the hotel, but you weren’t there. I was worried I’d already missed you.”

“And why would that worry you? I’m leaving OK? You won’t have to see or hear from me ever again. I wasn’t planning on staging some sort of protest outside the villa: No Marcus, pick me, pick me!”

Marcus gives him a funny look. “No, I know, I just wanted to explain…”

“There’s nothing to explain! It’s a dating show. You wanted to date the other guys more than me. _All_ the other guys,” Esca allows a slight snarkiness into his tone. “So you eliminated me. Simple. I’m not stupid as well as unattractive.”

“I don’t think you’re unattractive. Or stupid.”

“Well, whatever.” Esca shrugs and turns his back on Marcus, pretending to be intently studying the address label on his suitcase, pretending he’s not aware of Marcus’ every movement behind him, the tingling warmth of Marcus’ skin, the smell of him.

“Quite the opposite.”

Esca gives a derisive snort. He feels the warm press of one of Marcus’ large hands against his arm, turning Esca gently round to face him.

“Don’t you get it, Esca? That whole thing is so fake, but this is… _real_. I wanted it to be real.” Marcus stares earnestly into his face, eyes open and melting green.

“What do you mean, real?” Esca asks, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. If this is some kind of set up, he’s going to… Actually, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He can hardly smack Marcus in the face. The guy could probably kill him with one hand. 

“I mean… I didn’t want my next date with you to be on camera. I didn’t want to never know how you really felt about me, if you were acting or… I wanted it to be just us. You know, private. The way I feel about you is… I didn’t want a film crew there. Not with someone who I…like.”

“Next date, huh?” Esca asks acidly, trying to quell the wave of hope that is surging in his chest at Marcus’ words. “You just eliminated me from a dating show. That generally precludes next dates.”

“Well, there is that too. I guess I didn’t want to take you to the final and pick you only to have you turn and laugh in my face,” Marcus mumbles quietly, looking down at the floor.

“Laugh in your…? Marcus, why would I laugh in your face? I’m clearly… In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m sort of crazy into you. It’s lucky that camera crew was there on our first date, because otherwise I probably would have tackled you to the ground and kissed you. It’s all I’ve been thinking about."

Marcus’ smile is bright enough to guide the planes into land. “Yes.” Marcus’ eyes are a dark, dreamy green. “Yes, Esca. That’s all I’ve been thinking about too.”

He pulls Esca in closer to him, so Esca can feel the heat radiating out from his thick boxer’s body.

“So, can I call you? The minute all this nonsense is over?”

“I guess,” Esca replies, feeling suddenly shy. Marcus’ nearness, the warm, musky scent of him, is pretty overwhelming. 

“I can’t wait to get you somewhere away from all the cameras and people,” Marcus whispers, just north of Esca’s ear. “Somewhere quiet and secluded where no one can hear all the noise I’m going to be making when I finally get you inside of me.”

Esca swallows heavily. “That sounds…um… “

Then Marcus leans down and gives Esca a brief, chaste kiss on the lips. It’s a gentle kiss, barely a brushing of Marcus’ full, sensual pout against Esca’s own narrow mouth, but it’s enough to set Esca’s heart racing with possibilities. 

“Definitely, we definitely need to find somewhere secluded,” he manages. Marcus grins happily at him. “So, about this farm of your uncle’s…?”


End file.
